by KB Inglee
In August we will take a week’s jaunt to Vermont to visit the Lawrences. Though Charles and his father have patched up their disagreements and are civil to each other, there is still a coolness that I am at a loss to explain. There has to be more to the disagreement than his failure to earn a Harvard degree and his refusal to enter the family business. Perhaps someday I will find out the real story.
One thing Mr. Lawrence seems to approve of is his only son’s choice of wife. The old man appears to like me better than he likes Charles. Can you imagine such a thing?
As usual we will be in Cambridge for the rest of the summer. Any chance you and Fred can make a trip east while we are there?
With love,
Emily
RULE OF THUMB
On the water between Washington City and Boston, June 1882
Why had Charles chosen to travel by ship to Boston this year? It would take forever and Emily would have to dress for dinner. This was the start of the summer break and she did not wish to waste it traveling. The train would get them there in a day.
Charles treated her objections as though she were simply afraid to be on the open ocean.
“We can leave just a few blocks from the house and arrive a trolley ride from your parent’s home,” he had told her. “We will never be out of sight of land. You will enjoy it.”
There was no accounting for what husbands wanted, so she might as well make the most of it. Let him carry the bags filled with the books she would need to amuse herself during the long days at sea.
Emily sat on the deck of the Addie B. watching Washington recede. Charles might be right about a sea voyage. All she had to do for the next three days was sit here, watch the shore go by, and read. And there was always the possibility of a shipboard romance. That would show Charles. Although there was not a single man on the deck at the moment.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” asked the young woman in the chair next to her, pointing to the welcoming façade of the white house high on the hill. Eighteen was she? Not much chance of a romance with this lovely girl as competition.
“That must be Mount Vernon. It is splendid,” said Emily.
“I recognize you,” said the young woman. “Your husband is Charles Lawrence, the detective. Papa pointed the two of you out to me in court just last week. I’m Alice Lee.”
Emily sighed. She never bothered to mention that she, too, was a detective, and that the agency was owned by them jointly. No one believed her when she did. Yet it suited her to be overlooked. Most people seemed to talk easily to a sympathetic woman, and would tell her things they would never mention to Charles.
“Who is your father? Is he a lawyer?” asked Emily, hardly caring what the answer would be. She fingered the book in her lap, anxious to get back to it.
“Papa is Judah Lee.”
Oh, that Lee. She and Charles had conducted an investigation for the firm of Lee and Watkins two years ago. Maybe the girl would know something of interest after all.
“Do you sail often?” asked the young woman.
“We usually travel by train.”
“I am going to Boston to visit my grandfather. That’s where you are going as well?”
Emily nodded. “Yes, Mr. Lawrence and I spend the summer with my parents.”
“I love being on the water. Smell the air. Isn’t it wonderful?”
The air carried the scent of new-mown hay from the fields sloping down to the water, damp earth, and something else Emily could not identify. Perhaps it was the water itself stirred up as the ship passed. It was far more pleasant than the smell of the Potomac River near home.
Miss Lee glanced back at the mansion as it dwindled behind them. “I found the nicest statue of George Washington to take to my grandfather as a house gift. I’ve set it up on the desk in my cabin. Would you like to see it? This evening I will do a watercolor of the mansion as it looked from the ship. He would love that. He has made a study of our first president, and is writing a book.”
“You’re not traveling alone, are you?” asked Emily.
“Heavens, no. Mr. and Mrs. Watkins are my chaperones. He and my father are partners in the same law firm.” The girl stood up and straightened the peacock sash of her white summer dress. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lawrence. After dinner, you must come to my cabin to see the statue.”
The soporific chug chug of the engine, the persistent slight rocking of the ship, and the warm afternoon sun lulled Emily into a deep sleep. When she awoke, Charles had taken the seat next to her and was engrossed in a two-year-old copy of Nature.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
“This fellow Henry Faulds may be on to something. Says you can identify people by the lines on their fingertips. He got the idea when he saw the prints of the potters on some old jars. Take a look at it when I’m done.”
“We’re on vacation,” said Emily, crinkling her nose. “I’m not reading anything for work. Just novels for the next two months.”
She watched through drooping eyelids as an elderly couple strolled the deck arm in arm. A mother held her child by the hand and pointed out the houses along the shore. Miss Lee, the peacock sash of her light summer dress unmistakable, chatted with an officer in full uniform wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. Emily glanced at him again. It was the purser, Mr. Smith, who had greeted them when they boarded. There had been something vaguely familiar about him. She might remember where she had seen him before if she didn’t force it. Miss Lee laid her hand lightly on his arm and turned away. A shipboard romance, indeed, but not for Emily. She picked up her novel.
* * * *
Emily was reluctant to trade the cool evening air of the deck for the hot dining room. Her brown linen looked drab among the festive dresses of the other women. A bit of white lace at the neck and wrists did little to improve it. Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, seated beside Charles, seemed nice enough, if a bit stuffy. Alice Lee behaved for all the world like a woman in love, glancing at the officers’ table and smiling to herself now and then. Mrs. Watkins noticed, laid her hand on Alice’s shoulder, and shook her head. Alice blushed and lowered her eyes. Why did young people think others didn’t notice their improprieties?
Charles’s conversation with Mr. Watkins struck Emily as more of an interrogation than polite dinner conversation. That was one of the drawbacks of being a detective.
“Didn’t I see you in court last week?” asked Charles. Of course he had. She had seen him speak to the lawyer in the hall after Charles had testified for another client.
“Yes, indeed. A stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. You remember Jude Kleeg? Was supposed to have robbed the District Bank and Trust?”
“You were his defense lawyer, if I remember rightly.”
“Got him off. Reasonable doubt, the jury said.” Mr. Watkins squared his shoulders and seemed to puff up like a cockerel ready to crow.
“Wasn’t the bank guard injured in the robbery?” asked Emily.
“Humph. Said he was. Had a doctor attest to it. I proved in court he was faking. Had nothing to do with the case anyway, because Kleeg wasn’t anywhere near the bank at the time it was robbed. Had a… er… well… a young woman say he was with her.”
Emily snorted softly. The money from the robbery would pay for a high quality defense team, and perhaps a witness or two as well.
Mrs. Watkins reminded her husband that they were all on vacation and it was time to put aside the dark world of crime. “Will you spend the whole summer in Boston?” she asked Emily and Charles.
* * * *
Alone on the cool deck after dinner, Emily dreamed of the green trees, fresh vegetables and flowers of her mother’s garden. Lights twinkled from the shore and the water slapped at the bow of the boat.
“This might not be so bad, Charles,” she murmured to her husband, who was nowhere in sight. “The peace is refreshing.”
* * * *
The second day on the water, Emily picked up one of the novels she brought with her, read a few pages, set it down on the deck chair and walked once around the Addie B. How had she turned from contented to bored so quickly? She retrieved Nature from the cabin, found a solitary deck chair and read it from cover to cover. She studied her own fingertips to understand the pattern of swirls she found there. A magnifying glass on living fingertips was not as satisfactory as having the prints on paper. She tried drawing the intricate pattern of loops and swirls. Most unsatisfactory.
Where was Charles? She found him in the game room at the billiard table. “Charles, I’d like to try something if you don’t mind.” He was a particularly poor billiard player, so he seemed happy enough to hang up his cue and follow her to the cabin.
Moving the stack of books off the bedside table, she used the tiny space as a laboratory, with a bottle of ink and a sponge. There was so little space in the cabin that she had to set a basin of warm water and a bar of soap on the floor at the foot of the bed. She began by making prints of the fingers on her left hand, and then Charles’s prints. When she had perfected the method of taking prints to her satisfaction, she searched for passengers willing to have their prints captured on paper.
This was more interesting than any of the novels she brought. By the time the sun was overhead, she had five sets of prints on Lawrence Research stationary.
At the midday meal, Alice again invited Emily to see the statue of George Washington, a solid chunky bronze piece with more mass than grace.
“It’s lovely,” Emily lied. “Your grandfather should adore it. Especially since it is from you.”
She had again seen Alice in company with the purser, and she knew she should caution her. She began gently. “Mr. Smith is a good-looking young man. He seems familiar. Have you met him before?”
“No, but we took to each other as soon as I boarded the ship. He shook my hand as I stepped off the gang plank and held it for just a bit longer than necessary. I have enjoyed his company.”
“It shows. It might be wise to be more discreet.”
Alice laughed. “Mr. Watkins said much the same thing this afternoon. I think Mrs. Watkins put him up to it.”
Emily changed the subject. “Would you be willing to let me take prints of your fingertips? It’s for a study I am doing.”
Alice did not enquire as to why Emily would do such a strange thing, but assented at once.
* * * *
Emily had done as much as she could with her fingerprint study, given the tools she had at hand: a poor magnifying glass, some cotton lint, a bottle of ink, and a basin of warm, soapy water so her victims went away with clean fingers. She had finished the first novel, and had put the second aside. She began sketching the other passengers: Mr. and Mrs. Watkins looking over the rail at the New Jersey coast line, Alice and the naggingly familiar purser chatting by the rail, Captain Bates dressed for dinner giving orders to his first mate, a group of men playing poker in the lounge.
She found Charles leaning against the bulkhead with a cigarette in one hand and a tankard in the other. “I am bored to tears. If we had taken the train they would be there.”
He smiled. “I had thought this could be a private time for the two of us before we were immersed in family.”
“Oh? But you have not seen fit to spend the time with me.”
He tossed his cigarette over the rail and set the tankard on the small table by the lounge chairs. Then he put both arms around her. “Do you still love me, Mrs. Lawrence? Have you grown tired of me after all these years?”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Not a bit. Though I had hoped for a shipboard romance.”
“I know just the fellow.” He took her hand and led her to the privacy of their cabin.
* * * *
The pitch and roll of the ship increased by the second evening, and there were fewer people at dinner. They passed New York and were in Long Island Sound as the Addie B. chugged up along the Connecticut coast toward Cape Cod. Tomorrow morning they would finally arrive in Boston. Emily looked forward to seeing the city from the harbor. She stretched out on their bed with her novel and let the vibration of the engines and the rocking of the ship lull her to sleep. When she awoke it was dark. Charles had not returned to the room. She patted her hair into place, smoothed her dress, and reached for the door knob.
A scream sliced through the dark silence.
When she peered into the hall she saw that the door of the cabin two down stood open. Several people huddled around it, Charles among them.
“Get the Captain,” he ordered the purser. “Everyone else move away from the door. You there, take care of this woman.” Charles thrust a sobbing Mrs. Watkins into the care of another couple.
“Emily.” Charles motioned her to follow him into the Watkins’s cabin. He shut the door on the crowd in the hall.
Mr. Watkins lay across the bed in a pool of blood. Red smudges marred the water carafe on the night table. Emily drew a deep breath and turned her eyes away from the scene. An open suitcase sat on the luggage stand, and clothing was spread under the body. As she moved to look more closely at the carafe her toe touched something hard. Partway under the bed was Alice’s bronze statue of George Washington, blood congealing on its head and shoulders.
Charles bent down to examine Emily’s findings. “Someone seems to have coshed him with this.” He poked the statue with his toe. “There’s a wet spot on the carpet.” He indicated a dark stain next to the bed.
Emily touched the stain and rubbed her fingers together, then sniffed them. “It’s water, not blood.”
They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. “This is Captain Bates,” said a commanding voice.
“Come in,” said Charles, as he opened the door. The captain and purser crowded into the room. “We appear to have a crime on our hands,” continued Charles. “I suggest you lock this cabin and send everyone away after the purser records the names of those gathered in the hall.”
Charles nudged Mr. Smith toward the door and bent to retrieve the statue. Emily, careful not to smudge the marks, picked up the carafe and followed Charles into the hall. The captain locked the door behind them.
“I know you’re a detective,” said the Captain to Charles in the privacy of the Lawrence’s cabin. “You are probably used to such scenes. What would you suggest we do? We are due in Boston early in the morning. My inclination is to lock the cabin and turn the case over to the Boston police, unless you have a better suggestion.”
Charles answered without hesitation. “You must settle Mrs. Watkins in another cabin, perhaps with Miss Lee. Place a guard at the scene. Make sure you have all the keys. Then let’s see how much headway we can make tonight. There are a limited number of suspects, and maybe we can present a solved case to the Boston police in the morning. Once we disembark, it will be more difficult to find out who did this. The suspects will be scattered to the four winds.”
Charles glanced around their tiny cabin. “We will need a space to interview the witnesses and set up a small laboratory. Our cabin is far too cramped for visitors.”
“Very well. I’ll issue the orders now. You are welcome to use my sitting room. It is a bit bigger than your cabin and less cluttered.”
Charles agreed. “It will lend an air of authority, as well.”
Once the captain was gone, Charles said, “It’s quite clear what happened. Alice was bragging about taking this statue to her grandfather and it was displayed prominently in her stateroom. You heard her say that Watkins was keeping her from some shipboard romance.”
Emily gaped at him. “You think Alice killed someone by smashing him over the head? Mrs. Watkins was acting as chaperone. Mr. Watkins took no notice of Alice’s actions except to deliver one lecture at the behest of his wife. This is hardly a woman’s crime, Charles.”
&nb
sp; “I know; generally poison is a woman’s weapon. Still, I have seen you riled up enough to bash someone over the head with something heavy. She might have done it in the heat of an argument. The only other suspect is his wife.”
“I think we have to look further than the two women.” Charles was certainly eager to plunge himself into the investigation. Boyish curiosity? Or perhaps to allay his own boredom?
Charles glanced at his pocket watch. “We saw Watkins at dinner. He was found two hours later. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for people to come and go.”
A young man in uniform approached them. “Captain says I should show you to his private lounge.” He led them up a set of stairs and into a room twice the size of their own cabin. Two large windows looked out on a darkened world. Emily drew the curtains to maintain privacy.
While they waited for the captain to bring the purser for his interview, Charles and Emily turned the room into a small replica of their Washington office. The implements of their trade, some bottles of chemicals and inks, Emily’s magnifying glass, and a few drinking glasses, were lined up on the table, a display more impressive than useful. The statue and the carafe were on a chest in the back corner, well out of the reach of interested hands. They had set two upholstered chairs and one straight-backed desk chair between the laboratory table and the door. Emily arranged her fingerprinting equipment on the desk in the corner by the door where it was both visible and accessible.
“This is Mr. Smith, the purser,” said Captain Bates. “He found the body.”
Emily motioned Smith to sit in the hard chair and took the offered list of names.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Smith, “but Mrs. Watkins found the body. I was nearby and heard her scream.”
“Did you see anyone come out of the stateroom?” asked Charles.
“No, sir. Only Mrs. Watkins. Alice, I mean Miss Lee, had been in there a few minutes earlier.”
“Did you know Watkins?” asked Emily.